


Ser Aymeric’s Schrödinger’s Cat

by PetrarchanConceit



Series: An Eorzean Starlight Suite [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers for Dragonsong War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27299977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrarchanConceit/pseuds/PetrarchanConceit
Summary: Greymaulkin would have to decide if he cared enough to answer the skulking dragoon’s unknowing call.He decided he did.He did, indeed, and not only because he knew that Estinien’s happiness mattered so much to his boy, but also, somehow, because Estinien’s happiness now mattered to Greymaulkin.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: An Eorzean Starlight Suite [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934875
Comments: 19
Kudos: 18





	Ser Aymeric’s Schrödinger’s Cat

**Author's Note:**

> I will not insult folks who most likely know more about Schrödinger’s famously didactic cat than I do by trying to explain it. Suffice to say, I evoke the idea of Schrödinger’s Cat to suggest a cat that is both in existence and not in existence at the same time. Or perhaps: I forgot to give Aymeric a cat and now I’m trying to suggest a reason why said cat is only showing up now.
> 
> Whether he is or is not currently in existence, Greymaulkin wishes everyone a Happy Halloween!

Dr. Jaques Lacan, irascible and bushy-browed as ever, trudged with his ever-amiable companion Dr. Michel Foucault toward the former scholasticate, an institution currently crawling at a pace just above sluggish toward becoming the modern university its foremost benefactors, Count Artoirel de Fortemps and Ser Aymeric de Borel, so wished it to be.

Today the pair of elezen philosophers were joined by yet another former Ishgardian, also newly returned from exile, the formidable Dr. Erwin Schrödinger. Since Dr. Einstein was still abroad and unlikely to return to Ishgard soon -- he far preferred the more soothing temperatures of Costa del Sol -- we shall have to make do with the suddenly anagrammatical Estinien instead. And, indeed, the dragoon was doing as Ser Aymeric asked, and escorting the academics to their new quarters up near St. Reymanaud’s Cathedral.

As usual, Lacan was giving someone a hard time. This time it was Schrödinger. 

“There exists nothing outside of The Symbolic,” asserted the famed psychoanalyst, bristling already at the equally famed quantum physicist. “I care not how quickly your ‘quantum particles’ decay, ‘tis not the ‘conscious observer’ that makes them collapse into a single state, on that I agree with you,” said the elezen with a snort, “ but the fact that a ‘consciousness’ cannot be said to be able to ‘observe’ anything outside of The Symbolic, outside of language. A ‘consciousness’ cannot even organize itself into agency, cannot become a subjectivity, a true _self_ , outside of language,” Lacan finished.

“Language or not, quantum mechanics persist,” asserted Schrödinger, nonplussed. 

“They can persist all they want,” returned Lacan, face starting to redden in anger, “if they cannot be _perceived_ , then an understanding of their workings is impossible, and if an understanding of their workings is impossible, should their existence be of any real concern to us?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” interjected Foucault, and by gentlemen he only loosely included Lacan, who was prone indeed to very ungentlemanly outbursts if someone so much as dared to consider her or himself as not in complete agreement with whatever supposition the psychoanalyst and philosopher was asserting at the time. “Let us continue this most stimulating discourse at a later time, perhaps. We have all of us just newly returned to Ishgard, and I, myself, would be most gratified if the man who was the last and greatest of our homeland’s Azure Dragoons did us the honor of explaining how Ishgard has changed since Ser Aymeric took hold of the reigns of government,” he explained. “We know very well what drove us into exile; we have yet to learn how and why conditions came to pass that have allowed our return,” he finished.

“Indeed, Ser Estinien,” said the patient Shrödinger, “please do us the honor of explaining how Ishgard has changed since the end of the Dragonsong War.”

Estinien stopped and blinked at the men. So not only was he going to have to babysit this gaggle of gabbling academic guests, he was actually going to have to _talk_ to them? Letting out a long breath, he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He knew Aymeric, since their return from Ul’dah, was asking him to perform these menial tasks in order to distract him, to help him be less anxious about, well, everything: the assassination threats against his beloved; the rumours and slurs -- many far nastier than simply referring to the man as a bastard -- that were becoming increasingly more common, if not in daytime Ishgard than certainly in the city’s shadier environs; and the return of his own draconic appendages, this time accompanied by a pair of wicked fangs that made even eating and talking difficult and kissing Aymeric nigh impossible -- and he really _missed_ kissing Aymeric he thought to himself. Then he realized that three pairs of eyes were still focused intently on his face, and he knew he would have to start somewhere.

“The end of the Dragonsong War…” he began.

Greymaulkin persisted. In the spaces in-between he stalked, hardly real but never _quite_ non-existent, ghosting out onto a trail of mischievous meanderings the likes of which have never been seen and can never be known -- at least not by us. Still he persisted, just at the edge of Aymeric’s awareness, ready if necessary to re-insinuate himself into his Lord’s presence if needed. He was having fun on his own, but if his boy needed him, Greymaulkin would snap himself into a shadow just like that: Snap! And there he would be, emerging from the darkest corner of Borel Manor, ready to purr his boy into peace.

He had _not_ been needed as of late. Mostly because another had come to take up the position of Chief Comforter in Aymeric’s life. And that was just fine by Greymaulkin. He liked Estinien, liked that he brought his boy such joy, and liked him in his own right because of the dragoon’s air of stalking feline surety. He felt a degree of kinship with the big, silver-haired man. 

And that feeling of kinship, perhaps, was what made the slinking, shade-dark cat feel the pull of the manor, feel the pull of being needed. The need was not Aymeric’s this time, however, but Estinien’s. Greymaulkin would have to decide if he cared enough to answer the skulking dragoon’s unknowing call. 

He decided he did. 

He did, indeed, and not only because he knew that Estinien’s happiness mattered so much to his boy, but also, somehow, because Estinien’s happiness now mattered to Greymaulkin.

When the big man returned home from academic escort duty, dripping wet from a rainstorm and with such tired eyes, Greymaulkin made ready at the edge. Snap! He slunk in through shadows and padded toward the hearth to silently settle himself beside Estinien. 

Sitting on the rich Ul’dahn rug laid out before the fire, the silver-haired elezen stared so intently and for such a length of time into the flames, he was unaware of the cat’s presence, nuzzling up against his flank and purring, for quite some time. This did not bother Greymaulkin; he just kept purring.

Slowly, gradually, Estinien became aware of a presence at his side, of warmth and of movement, of a gently buzzing whisper that persisted.

“Greymaulkin,” he said in a low, soft voice. “Where did you come from, puss?” He reached his hand to stroke sleek, black fur and the cat craned its head into the dragoon’s gentled touch, rubbing hard against Estinien’s fingers and purring all the while. Then darting up to rub his flexing body against the elezen’s thigh, Greymaulkin mewed once softly, hopped over the man’s leg, circled ‘round twice to settle himself into Estinien’s cross-legged lap and proceeded to knead his claws into the man’s thigh, rhythmically massaging.

“Where have you been, you wretched beast?” the elezen asked fondly as he continued to stroke Greymaulkin’s purring back. “Aymeric has been worried,” he continued, which was not precisely the truth, Estinien knew. Whenever he had time enough to think, and thus, time enough to become aware of the feline’s absence, Aymeric had indeed voiced concern in regard to his cat’s whereabouts, but time enough to think was a rare indulgence for the Lord Viscount de Borel.

“Greymaulkin can take care of himself,” the dragoon had always assured his beloved whenever that particular concern cropped up, and since Aymeric regarded Estinien to be far more aligned with a state of felinity than himself, and thus capable of understanding precisely how much “care” would need to be “taken” to keep his beloved cat safe, he had left it at that. Though perhaps he should not have; few knew better than Aymeric how _little_ care Estinien took of himself.

Greymaulkin knew though. 

He knew how Estinien’s relentless drive to shepherd those he claimed as part of his flock superseded any care he might claim for himself. He knew also, from experience, how very close the dragoon was drawing to the edge now. Another couple shadows creeping at his flank and Estinien was liable to Snap! right through them himself, into the beyond -- the _beyond boundaries_. Unlike the feline, however, the dragoon’s ghosting was likely to remain permanent. 

Greymaulkin sought to forestall that potentiality. Rising to his paws now, he circled once, twice, and then stood on his back legs, digging his front claws into the dragoon’s chest, still purring hard, kneading, and adding an insistent flick of his tail.

“Ouch,” said the elezen. “You’re going a bit too hard, puss,” he admonished the cat.

In response, Greymaulkin dug in harder, releasing in the process his last and most potent weapon against the man: he stared at Estinien -- deeply, unflinchingly stared, and the dragoon could not help but stare back.

And here’s the thing about Greymaulkin’s stare; he was truly Ser Aymeric’s cat. Instead of the gold or green that was a more common and expected colour to complement the fur of a sleek, night-dark cat, Greymaulkin’s eyes were of the purest azure blue. Drawn down into them, as he was so often drawn into the like-coloured eyes of his love, Estinien could not help but yield to the whisperings he found therein: “let go,” those eyes nudged; “allow yourself weakness,” they continued; “break a little,” they buzzed; “you are in my care,” they caressed.

Greymaulkin broke the stare, then, and dropped into Estinien’s lap. His important work here was complete. He circled once again, decided to settle so his back was to the fire, curled up in the very center of Estinien’s lap and began anew the process of digging his claws into the dragoon’s thighs, purring hard all the while. Yes, he circled and he curled; he kneaded and he purred; he twitched and he flicked his shade-coloured tail...and Estinien bent over him and wept.


End file.
